Loisa Fenichell

 Loisa Fenichell

Scene XXIX

God is scrutinizing me through a marble to ensure I will never miss a story again. The story today is the birds are whistling outside. The glass vase remains on the desk, best for peering through. There are mice in this apartment, underneath the bed, making love to a round eye of jam. I do not know where the jam came from, how it got there in the first place. In the mirror I am reminded of the time I dyed my hair. An isolated bell of weather trebles over the roof. The butcher I visit around the corner has teeth loosened and blooming. He desires with the coolness of childhood. The story today is tomorrow resting dull, mournful, beautiful. I am kissing the mark tomorrow will leave. The world does, at times, pass in its clearest form: my city with its sharpened midnights; its edges of longing. Today I am trying to encrypt loneliness. I used to drink until I felt the earth turn.